


The Uttermost North

by Phoebe_Zeitgeist



Category: Kuroshitsuji
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Zeitgeist/pseuds/Phoebe_Zeitgeist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ciel discovers an unexpected, but not unwelcome, effect of advertising.  Written for the canadian_shack tenth anniversary challenge, and utter fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Uttermost North

It was a shack. A big shack, to be sure, but definitely a shack, haphazardly constructed out of splintered timbers from old shipwrecks, nailed and lashed together with reforged iron nails and rope stiff with salt. It held together somehow, but the boards were warped and broken, and wind howled through the gaps between them.

Unless Ciel stared at a point beyond the wall, and let his vision blur, and then it was a workshop. An orderly, busy workshop, efficiently arranged and comfortable, with a fire at one end and a stove for heat in the middle, and small craftsmen dressed in red at the benches. Very small craftsmen: half his own height, with strange but pleasant faces, at least in soft focus: not quite human and not quite animal. They made him think of hedgehogs and foxes and owls, for all that they went upon two feet and had clever human-looking hands,. Human-looking hands until you looked too closely, and saw that some had three fingers on those hands, or four, or six. They hummed as they worked, and the humming made a music like plainsong.

A workshop, then, if one with unusual workers. Until he focused his eye and looked again, and the benches were splintered crates on a floor of planks, and the iron stove was a few pieces of rusted metal, broken and coated with ice. It was like the stories he remembered from the nursery: fairy gold that turned to shit outside the borders of elfland, fairy silks that turned to a handful of rotting leaves when the dance was done.

The creatures were still real enough, though, and if he could trust his own senses, so was the work they were doing. The stuffed rabbit he held in his hands was beautifully made, softer than anything that came from his factories. Its face was intelligent and individual: it looked like it might talk to you. If this was a fair sample of their work, he would have liked these creatures to make all his toys. He said so, half-automatically, to the creature that had pressed it upon him as though for inspection. It seemed pleased, and there was a familiar-feeling rustle through the shack: half the workshop must have been listening, and for some reason his approval seemed to matter.

He forced his vision back out of focus; it did not make the shack warmer, but it made it look warmer. His fingers were beginning to go numb. “Sebastian,” he said.

“The toys are real.” Sebastian was behind him now, and the air around Ciel went summer-warm with the demon’s own heat. “These are immortal creatures, young master,” he said. “You must understand, purpose means a great deal to them.”

“They based this on our advertising.” It was not a question; the workshop — when it wasn’t a shack — was the very image of the illustrations he had commissioned for the Christmas season two years ago.

“Evidently, young master. They must have taken it as reflecting your wishes.” Now Sebastian was settling a hat on his head: soft, edged with some long fur. Something new, something Sebastian had in his inscrutable judgement decided Ciel ought to wear — Sebastian’s hands came away, and the top of the thing flopped over onto his shoulder. It was red, and came to a long point, and there was a puff of white fur at the very end.

He ran the velvet length through his fingers, pointedly. “Sebastian. Why am I wearing Father Christmas’s hat?”

“It is a gift, young master. And an appropriate courtesy to your staff, who consider it to be the traditional symbol of their liege lord and chief. Regalia, as it were.”

It was not, Ciel supposed, the strangest thing that had ever happened to him. Quite.

“If I may remind you, young master,” Sebastian said, “you did ask me to inform Lady Elizabeth that you expected to be away from home on a business matter on this day. And that you expressed a wish that the business matter might take you to the North Pole, since it seemed that no place nearer to home would be sufficient security against her efforts to see you had a birthday party.”

Of course. Really, he should have known. “And you would be ashamed to call yourself the Phantomhive butler if you couldn’t even manage something like that,” Ciel told him, fighting down a smile. “I suppose we had better negotiate an appropriate contract with our new employees. Will we be staying the night?”

Sebastian wrapped a red cloak over his shoulders: it too was trimmed in white fur. “I believe it would be prudent, young master. I think you will find that your designers and craftspeople here have several other designs they would like you to review in the morning.”

“See to the arrangements, then.” He could feel himself grinning broadly, and let go any thought of trying to conceal it: this was the best birthday present he had ever had. “I trust you will be able to find comfortable lodgings in the neighborhood. And, Sebastian? If my sleigh is going to fly, as seems likely, I should like to be awake for the drive home.”

**Author's Note:**

> According to Wikipedia, in the late nineteenth century the magnetic North Pole was located in northern Canada, at about 70°31'N 96°34'W. Thus this bit of pure strangeness.


End file.
